Grave: any place that becomes a receptacle
by Becks Rylynn
Summary: ...for what is dead, lost, or past. Last prequel to Incoming Call. Her story....


_AN: Here we have the last __**Incoming Call**__ prequel. It's very closely related to __**Wake.**_

**Title:**_** Grave: any place that becomes a receptacle for what is dead, lost, or past  
**_**Summary: **Prequel to _Incoming Call._ Her story...  
**Pairing:** Dean/Ruby, Sam/Jo in passing.  
**Genre:** Angst/Hurt/Comfort  
**Rating: **K+  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Supernatural or any of the characters.

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Written by Becks Rylynn

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_**Grave: any place that becomes a receptacle for what is dead, lost, or past**_

_''So, what do you say?'' Dean's saying, his voice calm and totally in control. She wishes she felt like that. All she can feel is fear. A strange emotion for her, considering she doesn't feel it a whole lot. She tries to take her mind off of the problem at hand, and tries to think about tomorrow. Because there will be one. There has to be one, she's not ready to leave Dean just yet. ''Can you just let her go?'' There's a long pause and she almost breathes a sigh of relief, but holds it down, because the hunter holding her has so obviously broken. Everything's going to be fine, they're both going to make it out alive, and they're going to go home. But then..._

_...The hunter holding her against him looks at Dean and there's nothing in his eyes except rage and she knows that this is it. ''No.''_

_There's a chime somewhere far away, but before she can even cry out, her own knife comes down embedding itself in her flesh. The last thing she sees before she slips away is Dean's eyes, so broken and lost._

_Her tears, which she knows are there, don't even have a chance to fall._

_Hell comes next, bruising and bloody, in a place filled with scream and the stench of death. Everything seems to pass so slowly there, torture and mayhem and evil laughter in her ears, and then, something happens._

_Everything starts to come in bright flashes, her life with Dean, her death, hell, everything's rushing past her like she's stuck in slow motion and everything else is moving at inhuman speed. A loud roaring comes now, loud and unnatural and then..._

...With a sharp gasp for air that isn't there, she opens her eyes to darkness and heat. Not hellfire, but a suffocating, no air reaching her lungs kind of heat. Her limbs ache and she can barely move, can't even sit up. A scream bubbles in her throat, but there isn't enough air in her lungs to make one, so all that comes out is a squeak. His name comes to rest on her tongue and she tries to cry out for him, but there's even less air then there was before.

Adrenaline rushes through her like the world's most powerful drug and her hands claw at the ceiling. No, not the ceiling. _The lid._ She realizes, with a start, that she's in a coffin. Just when she's about to give up, her hands break through and dirt pours in, getting in her mouth and eyes and nose. She closes her now stinging with dirt eyes, and pushes herself through dirt and sharp, jagged wooden edges that slice through her creamy white skin like it's butter, leaving behind trails of blood.

She's unpleasantly surprised to find the cuts sting in unusual pain.

That never used to happen before.

Her hand finds the cool night air first and then the rest of her, the cold air feeling like heaven on her fevered skin. She feels soft grass under her fingers as she coughs and gulps for much needed air. When she rises to her shaky legs everything lurches in the most distasteful way, making her stomach turn over. But there's nothing in her stomach to throw up, so she ends up on her hands and knees, dry heaving, fingernails digging into the soft ground. When she collapses on the ground and rolls over onto her back, she gives herself a minute to regain her strength, and then - slowly, this time - gets to her feet, blood drip, drip, dripping from the deep cuts on her exhausted body.

She blinks blurry eyes and shakes dirt from her blond hair, and dreads turning around, because she knows what she'll see. Sure enough, when she turns to look at the destroyed grave and even though there's no name, just a cross, she knows it's her grave. Tears prick behind her eyes and she lets out a strangled sob.

Yep, there's no mistaking it.

She's just dug herself out of her own damn grave.

Well, now she and Dean have even more in common.

Her blue eyes stray to her clothes, a white dress, torn and ripped and bloody. Funny, she doesn't remember ever owning a white dress. She hears something move in the distance and whirls around to face whatever hellish, nightmarish creature is standing before her.

Nothing.

Her mouth creases into a frown. Huh. Something is seriously off with her. When she turns back to look at her grave, she freezes. Fear pulses through her veins and a strained moan of torment tumbles from her lips. Her grave, once utterly wrecked and annihilated, is perfect once again, undisturbed, everything in place. When she looks down at herself, the blood dripping off her skin is gone and she looks clean and polished, beautiful even, the white dress once again untainted, looking quite pure in a moment of irony.

She remembers being strong once, but right now all she feels is weak and confused.

Most of all, she remembers what it feels like to be alive, and this...

...This isn't it.

Once again, her legs give out beneath her, she sinks to the damp ground, and let's herself cry for what seems like forever.

When she pulls herself together and stands, she shivers in the cold night air, and thinks it's odd.

She's never been bothered by the cold before, she's never broken down in tears like she's just done, never been bothered by simple cuts. She finds it incredibly bizarre that she feels more human in death then she did in life.

Yes, _death._

She knows she's dead...or at least she should be. But then again, dead people don't live and breathe, now do they? Yet, here she stands, in the world again, living, breathing, feeling alive again, even though she really shouldn't.

No, she's not dead.

But she's not really alive either.

She's not sure what she is.

Her mind works a mile a minute to process _what the hell _is happening to her and finally, it clicks into place and the breath she shouldn't have catches in her throat.

Halloween.

The one night a year where the dead walk among the living.

* * *

Halloween.

The night she died.

She knows she shouldn't be here. She shouldn't have let her tired and sore legs take her home, but they did. She can't see him, she'll only crack him apart even more and that's the last thing she wants. She needs at least one of them to be living, she needs him to stay on this earth with his family, even though she's not with him. She refuses to be the catalyst in Dean Winchester's destruction.

_But…._

Even though she knows all of this, even though her head is telling her to leave, her heart is telling her to stay.

She chooses her heart and before she knows it, she's standing in front of the very thin door that separates her from her love. In her head, she sees the door swing open and he's there, pulling her into his arms, murmuring over and over that he loves her and he'll never let her go again.

But that's fiction.

This is reality.

And in reality, the door remains closed.

More tears run down her cheeks like a river, and it feels like all she's been doing tonight is crying. To keep a sob from escaping, she presses two fingers to her lips and closes her eyes.

''You know you can't go in there, right?''

She knows she should be shocked at the voice that tears her out of her reverie, but for some reason, she's not surprised at all. She sighs. ''I know.'' She swallows miserable sobs and slowly, turns around to face John Winchester.

Rough around the edges, legendary hunter, long dead, John Winchester. His eyes may be cold, but she's heard enough about him to know there's a kind hearted man behind the bitterness.

''You really shouldn't be here.''

She stands her ground and puts her hands on her hips. ''And you should?''

''I can keep control.''

''Yeah, well, so can I!'' All at once, she realizes her voice was a little too loud and quickly slaps a hand over her mouth, glancing at the door nervously. No one comes out. They hadn't heard her.

John raises an eyebrow. ''Well, you're doing a bang-up job so far, sweetheart.''

The old her would have scowled and made a nasty remark. This her doesn't say anything, but leans against the wall and sinks to the ground, putting her head in her hands. She wishes she could just go back to her home sweet hell already, this is worse than any kind of pain hell could dish out on her. When she looks up, John's still there, regarding her carefully. This time, she does scowl. ''What do you want?''

''Did you love my son?''

She sets her jaw and lets her eyes go fierce and intense. ''With all that I had.''

John nods. ''That's enough for me.'' He sits down next to her, ignoring how uncomfortable she looks. ''He's a good man. A good soldier.''

''He's more than a soldier, and you know it,'' she startles herself with her words, clamping her lips together at once. To her surprise, John only laughs, and it's gentle and warm.

''I know that, Ruby.'' The smile on his face fades. ''I just wish I got the chance to tell him that. He's...not very fond of me, is he?''

''No,'' she states bluntly and once again is unpleasantly surprised at the human guilt that courses through her. She sighs heavily and turns her weary gaze to the ceiling. ''I mean, he loved you, of course he loved you. But...he...he kind of thinks you broke him.''

''I kind of think I did.'' John's not looking at her; instead, he's looking at the wall across from him, like it's playing a movie of his past. ''He didn't deserve a lot of the things I did to him, all the things I put him through.''

''You're not going to cry, are you?''

''Are you?''

''Probably.''

''Then you can cry for the both of us.''

They're both quiet for a moment and for half a minute, voices float through the door.

_''...Sometimes it seemed like you didn't _like _each other.''_

_''Yeah, well, sometimes we didn't, but...like you said...I loved her, and she loved me, and that was...that was enough for us.''_

She bites down on her lip to keep from crying out, letting her eyes drift shut, face twisting like she's being tortured. ''Damn it, Dean,'' she murmurs, burying her face in her hands once more. ''Please don't do this to me.'' She wishes the night was over. A hand touches her shoulder and she looks at John through blurry eyes. ''John, can I ask you something?''

''If I say no, you're going to ask anyways, aren't you?''

''Yes.''

''Then, yes, you can ask me anything.''

''Why...'' She licks dry lips and shifts nervously. ''Why are you being so nice to me?''

John hesitates and looks like he doesn't want to answer. That doesn't comfort her at all. Finally, he heaves a sigh and meets her eyes. ''You cut it close tonight. You're...You're running out of time. You're going to die again, and...and no one should die alone.''

''You don't even know me.''

''My son loved you, didn't he?''

A wistful smile dances on her face. ''I think he did.''

''Then I know enough.''

* * *

Eventually, her eyes grow tired and she feels her heartbeat slow in her chest. It's a strange feeling, this dying thing, not at all like the last time. It's much more peaceful. She's almost asleep, not even trying to hang on, when she finds herself yanked to her feet and dragged down the hall and around the corner. She moans and opens her eyes, glaring at John. ''That's no way to treat a dying woman.''

''Shush.'' He clamps a hand over her mouth and she resists the urge to growl. ''Jo's here,'' he whispers.

She frowns and when he removes his hand, she doesn't say anything. Cautiously, she peeks around the corner, thinking she'll just get a glimpse of Sam's wife. She shouldn't have done that. Instead of just the blonde she once called a friend, she sees..._him_, locked in one of those intense eye stares with his brother where he says more than he ever could with words. ''Oh,'' she squeaks and her legs give out.

John catches her before she hits the ground and holds her up, peering around the corner, getting his own glimpse of his sons. His own breath gets caught somewhere in his chest, because his eldest son is a lot different than the last time he saw him. More devastated and broken. And a lot of that has to do with the girl currently dying in his arms. His younger son seems, for the most part, happy, with a wife and a daughter. At least that's something. John swallows and tries to hear what his boys are saying, if only just to hear their voices.

''Look, Sammy, I appreciate what you've done for me,'' Dean's saying, ''but I can take it from here.''

''Dean,'' she whispers, her voice a low murmur. She knows she can't hold on much longer and wishes she could just feel him one last time.

There's something in the brother's eyes, in his boys eyes, and with a small bolt of shock, John realizes _they know._ He looks at the blonde. They know she's here, he can tell. Oh, this could get messy.

_Just keep breathing,_ she tells herself,_ just for a little while longer._

By the time Sam and Jo leave, she's almost gone, and John's half carrying her back towards the doorway. He's not stupid. He knows there has to be something here, there has to be some kind of communication between Dean and Ruby, they've both been waiting long enough. Gently, he pushes her towards the door and she leans heavily against it, trying to stand up straight.

''I know you're there, baby. I can feel you.''

She cries silently and tries to speak, but she doesn't have any voice left. Hearing his voice, feeling him, even though a door, all of it feels to her like coming home. She feels a little bit stronger, and she realizes quickly that it's him. His soul is hanging onto hers like she's a light in the dark. Her breathing's shallow, barely there, and she knows she doesn't have much time left.

''You're not going to say anything, are you?''

_I'm trying_, her mind screams, but she still can't find words. Her hand, shaking with the effort, moves to the door, like a magnet's pulling it along. It's him. She wonders if he tried, if he tried really hard, if he would be able to keep her forever. She thinks probably not, because not even he's that strong. She has to go now, there's darkness ebbing away at her, and everything's spinning. She has to go now, she has to let go. But she needs to hear him say it, one more time.

Just one last time.

''I love you.''

She starts to sink to the ground, her body fading into nothing as she does so, and with her final breath, she whispers ''I love you too.'' One. Last. Time. Before she hits the ground, she fades away, like she was never there at all.

At least this time, she got to say she loved him.

* * *

Halloween.

The one night a year where the dead walk among the living.

John Winchester scoffs at that. He's been walking among the living for years now.

The boy - the man, he reminds himself - asleep in the bed doesn't even notice when his father enters the room. He never has. He looks different sleep, John muses, like he's okay, like he's not breaking in two every day he lives without her.

John had hoped when he met her, he would hate her. He had hoped she would be unpleasant and rude, and he could hate her for breaking his son's heart. But, to his displeasure, she had been very likeable and he found himself taking care of her as she died again.

Hmmm.

With a sigh, John collapses in a chair by his eldest son's bed and leans back to settle in for the night. He waits for the whimpering to begin, the haunted moans of her name escaping his elder son's lips. He knows Dean dreams of saving her. He knows Dean dreams of her every single night.

That's why he sits here.

He has to look after his boy.

If he couldn't do it in life, he'll do it in death.

Maybe someday he'll reveal himself to his boys, he'll let them see him or hear him and tell them everything, but for now, as the clock on the bedside table changes from 2:59 to 3:00, John will do what he does best.

He'll take care of his boy.

**end**


End file.
